CHAPTER XX.

JAMES AND EMILY.

They set forward the first week in September. James had left everything but his rifle and ammunition in the wilderness, and on his way home had stopped every night at a tavern or farm-house. He therefore had nothing to carry of any consequence, and put a pack-saddle on his colt, which Mr. Whitman had broken in the course of the winter, and in the pockets of the saddle put all Miss Conly’s clothes, flint and steel, provender, pepper and salt, and mugs to drink out of, and knives and forks. Behind the saddle of Miss Conly’s horse was strapped a round valise, in which she carried her needles and some clothing and light articles. When the weather was pleasant they put up only at night at the taverns, which were generally poor; halting at noon by some stream or pleasant spot that afforded grass for the horses. At such times James would often shoot game and cook it on the coals, or catch a fish in the stream, and they would lunch.

The diffidence of James gradually wore off as he became better acquainted with his companion and found how implicitly she relied upon him for care and protection, but that very fact, coupled with his high sense of honor, prevented him from giving voice to the words that were often upon his lips, because he felt that to do this when they were alone in the wilderness was taking an undue advantage and placing her in an embarrassing position,—and more terrible still, should he meet with a refusal, how awkward and constrained would be their positions going back together, as go they must in the spring.

He could not, however, endure the thought of going into the woods before the matter was settled, and remaining in a state of suspense all winter. They were now within a day’s journey of Pittsburg and James had not effected the purpose nearest his heart. He now began to accuse himself for having neglected on the road opportunities that would never occur again, for at Pittsburg they would be in a crowded tavern; and at William Whitman’s his stay would be brief, and there would occur no opportunities so favorable as many he had suffered to pass by unimproved.

The sun was setting as they neared the Scotch settler’s, where James had before been made so welcome, and Pittsburg was but two miles away. Mr. Cameron was seated bareheaded on the door-stone with his wife, watching the children, who were frolicking with a calf they were rearing. Hearing the tread of horses, he looked up and instantly coming forward, said,—

“Gude e’en, Maister Renfew, I am blythe to see you, and to find that you like us weel eneuch to be ganging this way again.”

“I never enjoyed myself better than I did last winter, and I am glad to find you and your family all in good health, for I see they are all here. This is Miss Conly, a sister to Mrs. Whitman, and is going to spend the winter with her.”

“I’m right glad to see baith you and the lassie, and now light ye down and the gude wife’ll gie ye some supper in the turning of a glass, and ye’ll spend the Sabbath wi’ us, and Monday morning ye can gang on rejoicing,”

“You are very kind, Mr. Cameron, but it is early and we can get to Pittsburg before it is very late.”

“I’ll niver consent to it. The horses are weary, so is the lassie; I ken it by the glance of her een. Ye’ll surely not travel on the Lord’s day, bating necessity, and the tavern at Pittsburg is no place for Christian people on the Sabbath, for there will be brawling and fighting and mayhap bloodshed between the flat-boat men.”

“Take the beasts by the bridles, Donald,” said his wife, “while I put on the kettle. What ails ye that ye dinna do it? We hae room eneuch for ten people, let alone twa, and what’s mair a hearty welcome.”

James could not have arranged matters so well for himself. Inwardly rejoicing, he assisted Miss Conly to alight, and they were ushered into the best room of the hospitable abode. While the travellers washed and rested a little from the fatigue of a long ride, Mrs. Cameron had prepared a backwoods supper.

“We have had worship,” said Mr. Cameron, “before ye came, but an ye are not too weary I wad like to sing a psalm or two; it’s seldom we hae any one wi’ us can sing.”

After spending an hour so pleasantly as to make James and Emily forget the fatigue of their journey, they retired for the night.

The evening had thus been fully occupied, and James, his courage screwed by despair to the sticking point, had as yet found no opportunity for a private interview.

When Sunday morning came, Emily told Mrs. Cameron if she would like to attend meeting with her husband, she would take care of the children and get the meals, to which the former replied that she would gladly go, as she seldom could leave the children, and Mr. Cameron’s brother was to have a child christened that Sabbath.

Thus were they left alone, with the exception of the children, who were most of the time out of doors or in the barn. It seemed indeed a most auspicious moment; but, although ever approximating like a moth flying around a candle, James could not summon courage to declare himself in broad daylight. Mr. Cameron and his wife most likely would be inclined to sing till bedtime, and thus the opportunity that seemed at the outset so favorable, would in all probability have resulted in disappointment had not a fortunate circumstance prevented so untoward an occurrence.

Mr. Cameron was to deliver a load of wheat at Pittsburg by sunrise Monday morning, and intended to rise at twelve o’clock in order to eat, load his grain and reach the landing in season, as it was going into a flat-boat.

Her husband, unsuspecting soul, thought it was the most natural thing in life that Mrs. Whitman’s sister should come to visit her, and come with this young man who was going right there; and was anxious even at the expense of his rest to indulge in a psalm or two. But his shrewder helpmeet divined that there was a feeling stronger than that of friendship between her guests, and when supper and worship were finished, ushered them into the best room, and begging them to excuse herself and husband, as he was to start at one of the clock or soon after, and she must rise at twelve to get his breakfast, left them together.

James found that, like many other things in life, the anticipation was worse than the reality, and though he could not the next morning have told the words he had uttered in that little parlor, he was very sure that Emily Conly had promised to be his wife, provided her parents were willing, and that he was the happiest fellow that night that the stars looked down upon.

They took no note of time till they heard Mrs. Cameron up stairs getting up, and had barely opportunity to scud to their beds before she came down stairs.

Mr. Cameron had seen William Whitman Sunday at meeting, and notified him of their being at his house, and when they arrived at Pittsburg they found William, his wife, with the baby, and Jane Montgomery. It was a joyful meeting, for the two sisters were tenderly attached to each other.

“James,” said William Whitman, “we’ll put everything into the birch and get in ourselves and go home in fine style. Jane Montgomery will take both the horses along.”

When they had proceeded about seven miles and become a little satiated with conversation, William struck up a tune in which they all joined, for it was one which William and the sisters with the rest of the family were accustomed to sing sitting on the door-step at home. Before going into the woods James wrote to Mr. Conly and obtained the consent of the parents on condition that he should not carry her over the Alleghenies to live, for they could not bear to have the mountains between them and the remaining daughter.

They began trapping earlier this year; and abandoning the eastern branch of the stream that had been trapped out, took the western branch and went farther up, which necessitated the building of some new camps, but they found more beaver, and being so much earlier upon the ground, before the bears went into winter quarters, were enabled to kill several; likewise found more otters, and James, having had the advantage of a winter’s practice, was more successful, and in the spring they divided six hundred and fifty dollars between them.

During the journey that James made on his way back the year before to the Susquehannah, he had been very much pleased with the beauty and fertility of the limestone soil in the valley of that stream. Settlements had been made there as early as 1778, but latterly a new county had been formed, a town had been laid out just above the mouth of Lycoming Creek that emptied into the west branch of the Susquehannah River, and a road had been laid out to a painted post, where it struck the road to New York.

The Susquehannah was navigable, spring and fall, down to the Swatara, the home of the Conlys and Whitmans, and with a birch at any time of year. This was quite different from a market at New Orleans by water two thousand miles away, with hostile Indians on the banks of the stream, or by wagon road to Baltimore, and across the mountains to Philadelphia, four horses being required to haul twenty hundred weight, and occupying six weeks’ time. He now proposed to Emily that they should return that way and view together that country. They found that the lands in the valley bordering directly on the river were held very high, much above James’ means, but that a short distance up the creek that was navigable for small craft, land equally good could be bought for two dollars an acre, and could be paid for in gales, as it was termed, that is, by instalments extending to three years or even five.

“I do not incline, Emily,” said James, “to put myself in such a position that I must wait till I am past labor and enjoyment both, before I can obtain sufficient to be comfortable. I think it is better to pay more for land that is improved and nearer a market, even if you have to wait longer in the first place, for after you once purchase you must remain or sell at a loss.”

The landlord of the public-house told James of two places in the vicinity that had been improved and could be bought; one of which, he said, was owned by proprietors, had a log house and hovel on it with twenty acres cleared, and which they held at ten dollars an acre, one hundred and sixty acres.

“That,” said James, “is the asking price.”

“They are rich and will not take less; they know land will never be worth less on this creek.”

The other place, he said, was a great deal better place, better land and better location, because it was on the stream, while the other was a back lot. It had been bought and paid for by a Mr. Chadwick, but it took all he had to pay for the land, and having not a cent to help himself with, and having to work part of the time for others, he could not make much improvement, and became broken down with hard work and discouragement, and died in the struggle the winter before; that his widow and two little children were at her brother-in-law’s at the mouth of the creek, and she was anxious to sell, but would only sell for cash; that it would have been bought long before but the majority of settlers could not pay down; he never had been on it, but believed the buildings were not much and the lot was a hundred acres.

“If the place is as good as you represent, and joins the land of the proprietors, and will be sold cheap for cash, why don’t they buy it?”

“They mean to buy it, but are holding off to get it at their own price because she is poor, and they know she will be obliged to sell, and I wish that somebody would come along who has the money and take it from between their teeth.”

“You don’t know what she asks?”

“She did ask nine dollars; don’t know what she asks now.”

Obtaining directions from the landlord, they set out to see the places. After about four miles’ travel over a good road they then struck into the woods over a road of very different character, but nevertheless a very good one for the backwoods. The stumps were cut low to permit the passage of wheels, many of them taken out, the large rocks removed and the brooks and gullies bridged in some places with hewn timber, in others with round logs or flat stones. They passed through clearings on which were log and timber houses, some of them underpinned with stones and pointed with lime mortar, and most of the houses built, of round logs, were chinked with stone pointed with lime mortar, the chimneys were all built of stone laid in lime mortar, and on most of the farms were peach orchards. This road had been made by proprietors to increase the value of their lands, and in dry weather was a very tolerable road for teams; they also passed a limestone quarry, near which was a rude kiln.

They now reached the proprietor’s lot; a clearing of twenty acres had been made, ten of which were in grass, the rest pasture. A timber house of two stories, hovel built of logs, and hogsty and corncrib; the house had three rooms on the lower floor, stone fireplace, chimney and oven laid in lime mortar, two glazed windows in each room and in front; between the house and the road was a peach orchard in bearing, and a hop vine was clinging to the corner of the house. A spring in the head of a ravine ten rods from the dwelling afforded water.

James judged that the land was of fair quality, but broken and heavily timbered. After examining all that portion of the lot under culture, and the buildings, they rode on six miles farther, when they came to a very large pine-tree, hollow, blazed, and that bore the marks of fire. This tree had been given to James as a mark, and stood at the head of a bridle path which they followed, and soon came in sight of the creek, and rode through a beautiful stretch of level land, alluvial soil, and extending along the stream. In the centre of this clearing stood a great sugar maple, and beneath its lofty branches was nestled a diminutive camp, built of small logs, rather poles, stuffed with moss and clay. It was evident that stones were either not to be found upon this place or else the occupant had not cattle to haul them, as the fireplace was made of logs with a lining of clay, and small stones evidently water-worn and procured from the brook.

A large branch had been torn from the tree by the wind, and falling on the roof and chimney that was made of sticks coated with clay, had crushed in both roof and chimney. Within ten feet of the door a beautiful spring was bubbling out from beneath the spur roots of the maple. The hovel was much larger and higher than the dwelling, which would not have admitted a horse, being too low, and boasted a good bark roof; it was of sufficient size to contain six head of cattle and considerable hay.

It was already far past noon and they sat down by the spring to quench their thirst, bait their horses and partake of a luncheon.

“It is,” said James, “idle for us to think any more of the other place at present, as it is beyond my means, and I will not run in debt, my only object in looking at it was to compare prices. It is possible this place may not do, but there is not time to examine as thoroughly as I should like, we will go back and come again to-morrow.”

They returned again next morning in such season as to have the greater part of the day before them, and after a thorough examination, James said,—

“This place is worth two of the other for any poor man to get his living on, and I know if it will come within my means it is the place for me. What do you think of it. Do you feel as though you could ever make it feel like home?”

“My home will be where my husband finds it for his interest to be, and there shall I be content and happy, provided I can have sheep and cows, and flax, and spinning and weaving enough to do, that I may carry my part of the load in the way mother brought me up from childhood. But, to tell the truth, I should not have to try very hard to like this place, for it is the sweetest spot I ever saw.”

“I like the place, but must be governed entirely by the possibility of being able to pay for it and to get my living from it afterwards.”

“I can’t help feeling a little sad as I sit by this spring of which they drank, look upon that roof that once sheltered them, now all fallen in, and recollect that they came here no doubt building castles in the air as you and I do, and full of hope as we are, thinking what they would do; and then the husband was taken sick and, as the landlord expressed it, died in the struggle for a homestead.”

“The man died,” said James, who had not one bit of sentiment about him, “of a broken heart, and the reason that his heart broke was because he paid his last cent for land, and looked no farther, a thing no man should ever do.”

“Perhaps he liked the place, and his wife liked it, and wanted to live here and nowhere else.”

“I like the place, but I shall not buy it and go on it without a cent.”

James ascertained that the stream in its windings had formed a tongue of alluvial soil equal in extent to all the cleared land on the place, and which was concealed from his view the day before by the forest. It was overflowed and dressed by the spring and fall freshets and bore an abundance of grass, and by cutting a few bushes and removing the rafts of driftwood could be enlarged. This added vastly to the value of the land, particularly to an emigrant, as a stock of cattle could be kept at once, the openings in the woods affording with the browse sufficient pasturage in summer. He also found that the next lot of a hundred and sixty acres was government land, could be bought for two dollars an acre, or one dollar and sixty cents cash, and that on this lot was a mill-site.

“Now, Emily, we have seen all there is to be seen, and talked the matter over, I want to know if you like this place well enough for a home, because when I go to see this woman to know if she will take what I can give, I shall close the bargain. My own mind is made up that for me this is home.”

“My mind is made up; this is my home.”

The next morning, James went to find Mrs. Chadwick. She held the place at nine dollars an acre; said she had held it at ten; that everybody who was a judge of land said that it was worth more than the Ainsworth place, that the proprietors held at ten dollars, and that she must have cash.

James replied that the place had no buildings but a brush camp, only six acres cleared; that he expected to pay cash, but not so much as that.

Mrs. Chadwick said in reply, as James very well knew, that though there were but six acres cleared, yet by reason of the natural grass that grew on the intervale, it cut as much hay as the other place, that had twenty acres cleared by fire and axe.

After talking a while she fell to eight and a half. James replied that he compassionated her misfortunes, and wished she might get ten dollars, and even more, per acre, but that he was a young man just starting in life, had but seven hundred and sixty dollars in the world, but could get enough more to make up to eight hundred, and would give that, she replied,—

“Can I have any time to think of it? I would like to consult my brother-in-law.”

“I am going through here to-morrow on my way home. I will call then and get your mind.”

When upon his return, he told what he had said to Mrs. Chadwick, Emily replied,—

“I do not see how you could offer eight hundred for the land, when you have got but seven hundred and sixty, and you have always said that you never would spend all you had, to get a piece of land, and then be obliged to go on it without a cent to help yourself with.”

“Nor do I intend to do it either. Arthur Nevins has been coaxing me for several months to sell the colt to him. He’s an extra colt, and I don’t know but he’ll make as good a horse as old Frank. He has offered me a hundred and ten dollars for him. I am going to ask him a hundred and twenty. I know he’ll give it; if not, there’s another who will, and I shall have eighty dollars left.”

“Is that enough to begin with?”

“Many have begun with less, but that is not my method of looking at things. I shall work for Mr. Whitman this summer, trap with William next winter, and if Mrs. Chadwick takes me up, go on to the place in the spring or early in the fall. If she won’t sell, I shall by that time have sufficient, by the blessing of God,—as grandfather, if he was living, would say,—to buy a place in this region equally good. There are always people enough who are unfortunate or fickle-minded, who want to sell.”

James slept but very little that night, for his heart was set upon getting that land, and more especially since he saw that his companion was equally desirous of making it her home.

Miss Conly had told the landlord’s wife that James could run land, and by the time they were up in the morning, the landlord told James that there was a gentleman in the bar-room inquiring for a surveyor, for the only person in that place who surveyed land was sick with a rheumatic fever, and asked him if he could go, to which James replied that he had no instruments with him, but the landlord urged him to go and see the man, for doubtless they could obtain the sick man’s chain and compass. James told the man if it was merely measuring land to ascertain the number of rods, feet or acres, he would go after he had met his engagement with Mrs. Chadwick, but if it was a matter of contested lines, he must get some person of more experience. The man replied there was no other person to be obtained without going a great distance, that there was no dispute about titles, but his work would be merely to divide a large body of land into lots, and lay out roads through it.

James lost no time in going to see the lady, who by the advice of her relatives, had concluded to accept his offer, and he paid her fifty dollars to hold the bargain till he could obtain the money at home. The next day he went on the survey, and was occupied five days, at two dollars and seventy-five cents a day, and paid but a trifle for the use of the instruments.

“Grandfather was right,” said James, as they rode away from the inn, “when he urged me to study surveying, and would make me, when Saturday afternoons came and I wanted to work in the shop, go with Walter Conly and measure and plot land, and learn the use of instruments. He said it would put many a dollar in my pocket, and it has already put in almost fourteen.”